Aragorn son of Arathorn
by Stephantom
Summary: The story of Aragorn's early life, from age 2 up to about 25.
1. A New Life

Disclaimer: I do not own Aragorn, or Gilrean or any other of the characters mentioned in the story (although Drinian is mine, despite the name being courtesy of C.S.Lewis).  
  
Introduction: This is the story of Aragorn's life. This is gonna be a long one, so I'm sorry if you don't feel patient enough to read all of it. If you're one of those people who looks at the number of chapters and gasps, realizing there's a bunch of them, and not short ones either, fear not. Most of these chapters can stand alone actually. It's almost a collection of stories about Aragorn, just stuck together in chronological order. I'm just taking samples of certain stages of his life to give you an idea of what the whole thing was like. This first chapter is about him as an infant, and how he came to dwell in Rivendell. The next three chapters are about him growing up in Rivendell. Then at chapter 4 we take a break from the Elves and check out some Dunedain, and then he comes back to Rivendell and we see him as an adolsecent. The five chapters following are all about him age 20, as long of stuff happens at that point. After that, he'll be heading out into the world, on his own. So there's a breif overview of the story so far. Right then, chapter one.  
  
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Gilrean sat staring out the window as the snow fell to the ground. It was a bleak, cold winter night and the wind was howling, but the fire nearby kept her warm, and the child in her arms felt warm against her body. Her fingers caressed his soft, smooth skin, absently stroking his thin, whispy dark hair. Her husband was out with the other Dunedain, patrolling the borders of Northern Eriador. There had been sighting of orcs last week and she hadn't seen Arathorn for many days. She and Arathorn had been wed three years ago, and their son Aragorn had been born less than two years ago. He tried to be home as often as possible, and she tried to help as much as she could, sometimes even wandering off with the men of the Dunedain. But when things got dangerous, she was never allowed to go with them. Especially now that she had Aragorn to look after.  
  
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Gilrean stood up and placed the sleeping child on the chair, and went to answer the door. A ranger stood at the door, soaked and exhausted.  
  
"Drinian!" she said. "Come inside at once, it's horrible out there, you look awful!" Drinian nodded and entered the house, and pulled back his hood. He stood for a moment, catching his breath, then turned to Gilrean.  
  
"What is it?" The expression on his face made her uneasy. "Drinian, what's wrong? . What's happened?"  
  
The ranger hung his head and turned away. When he looked up again, his eyes fell onto the sleeping boy, not yet two years old. He looked back at the lady standing before him and saw the greif and anxiousness in her eyes. "We found signs of orcs east of the Brandywine. We followed them for days. Caught up with them near Bree. We might have beaten them. We very nearly did. We would have.. But there were more than we had expected. came up from behind. had been tracking us just as we were tracking the others." Gilrean was very alarmed, not only because of this horrible news, but because of the way the usually charismatic Drinian spoke in fragments, as if he were suffering a great deal of exhaustion, loss, and shock. She held her breath, waiting for Drinian to collect himself and tell her more. "Arathorn led us well. He fought bravely and he saved most of us." He looked up at her and his clear blue eyes stared into hers. "He is dead."  
  
Something seemed to suddenly grab Gilrean, and she felt an explosion of dread and remorse. It was true. It couldn't be true. No. NO! "No!" Drinian caught her shoulders as she slumped back, and helped her to the chair. She covered her face in her hands and cried. She was so young. They had been married such a short time. She hadn't seen him for so long. And he was gone. Gone forever. Drinian waited with patient understanding for many minutes, rubbing her back, until finally she looked up. "What am I to do now?" she asked. "Who will teach Aragorn? Who will take care of us?"  
  
"We must take him to Lord Elrond. You, also, will find care and shelter in Rivendell." She nodded. "I'll come back for you in the morning. Gather your belongings and prepare for traveling.. Are you alright?" She nodded again. "Thankyou, Drinian." "You're welcome, Lady."  
  
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"We're nearly there, Lady. We've come to the edges of Rivendell now, Elf Haven."  
  
Gilrean looked about her in awe. The trees were green and lush, and a river flowed nearby. Everywhere she looked she saw peace and beauty. Far off, she thought could hear beautiful voices singing. She rode behind Drinian, and Aragorn sat in front of her, grinning at the trees and small animals that watched them warily. A butterfly flew near his face and he laughed a high and sudden laugh and waved his arms.  
  
"Careful, Aragorn," Gilrean laughed, holding onto him. She couldn't help but feel light-hearted in this place of wonder, watching her tiny son laughing and smiling in excitement. She wondered when he would start to feel his father's absence and know that he was never coming back. The thought brought her back to the sorrowful circles she had gone through before. She missed him so much.  
  
When they had at last come to the house of Elrond, they were greeted by many elves, and Gilrean thought them the fairest folk she had ever seen. So tall and slender, so young and free, and yet so old and sad, at the same time. The knowledge of many years weighed on them, but the spirit of youth stayed with them always. A few elves took their horses to tend to, and the others escorted Drinian, Gilrean and Aragorn to their Lord Elrond.  
  
The travelers entered the room and saw Elrond sitting on his throne. He rose respectfully, in greeting and nodded to their escorts who left to continue with what they had been doing beforehand.  
  
"Welcome to Rivendell. Who are you, and what brings you here?"  
  
"Lord Elrond," said Drinian, stepping forward. "We are of the Dunedain of the North, and have traveled here from our village near Bree. My name is Drinian son of Drinel. I come with news and a plea."  
  
"What have you to tell?"  
  
"My Lord. Arathorn, Heir of Isildur has died." Elrond furrowed his brow in dismay and hung his head, staring away for a moment.  
  
"This is indeed sorrowful news, for Arathorn II was a friend of mine. And a man of great importance and valor. Tell me, how did he die? For, though I know the span of men is short, Arathorn was a men still in his youth, in my memory."  
  
"He was," said Drinian. "Only sixty-three years old. He might have lived three times that length. But he was slain in battle with orcs."  
  
Elrond sighed. "Orcs. And so near here. What is to be done now? Had he no heir?" Elrond's eyes shifted towards the woman behind Drinian, holding a child. "Who are you?"  
  
"I am Gilrean. Arathorn was my husband, and this is his son, Aragorn." She paused, glancing at Drinian and then looking back once more at Elrond, who was quietly observing her. "I have come to ask you for help. For care and shelter. For my son."  
  
Elrond sat for a moment in thought, considering. "Bring the child to me," he replied, his sharp blue eyes now focusing on Aragorn. Gilrean handed Aragorn to him. Elrond sat, holding the boy in his arms, smiling slightly. "Such a little thing." The boy he held was small for two years, and his legs were thin and frog-like. His face was round and pudgy, as all small children's are, and his grey eyes widened as he took the world in. They had darkened since infancy, and lost the cheerful, bright blue they once had. They now resembled, as they ever would, the sea on a calm, overcast day. "I sense for this child, a fate of great importance and urgency. Much depends on him. Heir of Elendil. It may be that all our hope rests in him. Therefore, Estel I name him, that is Hope in the High Tongue. He will reside here in Rivendell with his mother, under my protection, by that name, and none must know who he truly is. For now."  
  
Gilrean thanked him for his graciousness and then thanked Drinian for everything he had done. Drinian stayed for two nights in Rivendell, finding peace and comfort, but soon returned to his people, and left Gilrean and Aragorn under Elrond's protection. 


	2. Childhood Lessons

Estel ran through the woods as fast as he could. His heartbeat was racing. He stopped for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He glanced around him. No one… He tried to hold his breath and be silent, listening intently for some sound of approach but he heard none. He let himself breath again.  
  
"HA!" A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind, spinning him around and pointing a stick at his breast. "Elladan!" the boy squealed. "How? How could you? I didn't hear anything-"  
  
"You can't talk, Estel, you're dead!"  
  
"But that's no fair!"  
  
"Not fair? How was it not fair? I gave you three minutes head start, and I found you. Come on, you know it was fair. Never be afraid to admit when you're defeat, Estel."  
  
The seven-year-old sighed and nodded. "Alright then. You win. Again."  
  
Elladan chuckled. "And why did I win?"  
  
Estel thought for a moment. "Because you were silent and quick and have sharp eyes… And I was clumsy and loud, and wasn't careful enough…"  
  
Elladan knelt down to level himself with the small boy. "Well, with such a noble admittance of defeat and the fact that you give your enemy respect where respect is due, I should spare your life and accept you as an ally. Come, you can help me find Elrohir."  
  
Estel nodded and took Elladan's hand. They walked for a while, Elladan occasionally pointing out signs indicating that his brother had been there and which way he may have gone. Estel paid close attention and did his best to help with the findings. After a moment of silence he suddenly felt the need to voice some thoughts he had been harboring. "You know, Elladan, it's really not fair, you beating me. I'm just a human boy and you're an Elf, so you can run faster and quieter and see further than I can, plus you've lived thousands of years and I've only lived seven years."  
  
"Shhh!" said Elladan, trying very hard to keep a straight face. "The enemy is near."Estel immediately fell silent and wary.  
  
"There he is," whispered Elladan. "He doesn't see us. Here, I'll let myself be seen, while making him think I don't know I've been seen, and he'll come after me. You cut around down that trail, by the river, and come up behind him." Estel nodded and grinned.  
  
Estel ran off the way Elladan had indicated and raced along the well-known trails. This was one of his favorite games, but he didn't play it often. Elrohir and Elladan almost never had time for such child-play, being grown elves and sons of Elrond. But when they could take leave of their duties, they greatly enjoyed playing with their young, adopted human brother.  
  
Estel hid behind an old, wide tree, peeking around the edge of it to watch Elrohir standing a few yards off. He was approaching his brother, grinning. "Elladan!" He whispered loudly. Elladan spotted Estel first, then looked back to his brother.  
  
"Hello, Elrohir. Found our little Dunadan, yet?"  
  
"HA!" shouted Estel, jumping up onto Elrohir's back. The elf cried out in surprise and Elladan quickly joined in, and knocked him over. The three of them lay wrestling on the ground, laughing and shouting, completely oblivious of the man standing by them, watching.  
  
  
  
"What in Middle-Earth are you three doing?"  
  
"Father!" said one of the brothers, looking up at Elrond.  
  
"We were just showing Estel some hunting skills, that's all," said the other.  
  
"I see," said Elrond with an amused raised eyebrow. "Well, if you're all finished rolling around on the ground, you're welcome to join the feast."  
  
"Of course," they said, standing up and dusting the dirt off themselves.  
  
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The Hall of Fires was full of Elves that evening and Estel sat by Elrond and his sons, listening calmly to the ethereal voices telling ancient tales. They always sang glorious songs in the Hall of Fires, of the Valar and the Eldar, and heroes who had long passed and wars that had taken place, all of which intrigued young Estel immensely. Tonight, they were singing of the Fall of Fingolfin. When the song ended, Estel sighed sadly.  
  
"What's wrong, my son?" asked Elrond.  
  
"Nothing. I'm sad because Fingolfin shouldn't have died. He was the greatest of all the Elves, wasn't he, Elrond?"  
  
"Some have said his half-brother Feonor was the greatest…"  
  
"No. Feonor wasn't great because he didn't have the power to give up the jewels and share their light with everyone in the Valinor. If he had done that, then he would have been great. But Fingolfin was great. He was brave and stood up to Morgoth alone."  
  
"But he lost."  
  
"Yes… But he almost won, and he was just an elf, while Morgoth was a Mia… Don't you agree, Master Elrond? Don't you think Fingolfin was great?"  
  
"Yes," said Elrond with a smile. "He was great, the greatest of all the Eldar." Estel smiled, pleased with himself for having formed an opinion which Elrond, whom he deemed wisest of all beings, agreed with. "Though," continued Elrond. "He made a mistake." Estel looked up curiously. "He wasted his life for a fight he could not win. Brave, perhaps, but not very wise. For he left his people leaderless and confused. You see, Estel, when someone is a leader, they take on a responsibility and duty to their people. Fingolfin despaired and lost hope in his people, and so forsook his life on Middle-Earth in a last desperate attempt to duel with Morgoth."  
  
Estel sat in silence pondering Elrond's words. "Yes, maybe he shouldn't have done that since he was the King… But when I grow up, I want to be an Elf like Fingolfin, and I won't need to worry about what you just said, because I'm no one's leader."  
  
"No, perhaps not… But you cannot be an Elf like Fingolfin, for you are not an elf."  
  
"Oh yeah. I wish I were an Elf… All the ancient tales are about Elves."  
  
"Not all; there are the tales of Elendil and his sons. And of course, the tale of Beren and Luthien."  
  
"That one is my favorite. It's a rare tale of joy, among so many of grief."  
  
"That's very true."  
  
"Though there's one thing I don't understand about it."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Why did Luthien go to all that trouble just for Beren? For, as the tale says, she was beautiful beyond words, fairest of all the children of Illuvatar, and that she was descended from a Mia, and so had wisdom beyond any other Elves. And her fair skin was smooth and shimmering and her dark hair followed like a shadow, and that she was as glorious to behold as a fair twilight." Estel stopped and realized he was still talking to Elrond, and blushed slightly before continuing. "Why did she love Beren? He was just a man."  
  
Elrond hesitated for a moment before responding. "Reason rarely has any say in love. It is not for anyone to question for what reason one loves another. No one chooses who they love, they just do." He smiled at the quizzical expression on the boy's face. "Perhaps you'll understand someday when you fall in love."  
  
"Yuck. Me? I'll never fall in love," said the boy indignantly. "From all you've said, it seems quite silly."  
  
Again, Elrond smiled. "We'll sing to Varda now, and then you must leave for bed." 


	3. Estel, the human, No-man's Son

That was one of the last time Elladan and Elrohir played their game with Estel. They continued to spend much of their time with him, but it was spent teaching and practicing rather than pretending. They showed him how to fight with a sword and shoot with a bow and ride a horse and recognize signs of enemies. He enjoyed duelling with them, and other elves as well, when the brothers were busy, though he seemed never to win. He often sat in the Hall of Fires and hear songs of the Valar and Elves who had long passed into the West. He greatly loved writing songs of his own, as well, though he did not enjoy singing them so much as writing them, or hearing others sing them. His voice was fair, but it would never satisfy his ears which were accustomed to the glory of Elves. He studied many ancient tongues that were spoken by few, and developed a love for languages and lore, almost as strong as his love for history and legends.  
  
When he was not practicing tracking or fighting, nor studying history or lore, nor spending time with his mother or Elrond or the brothers, he would sometimes wonder through the woods on his own, watching the sun dip behind the Western Mountains, and the stars slowly appear in the dark sky above him. Five years passed by in this manner, and his legs grew very long, but he could not be said to be "big for his age", for he was of thin frame, and his face was young. His eyes, however, possessed a sense of maturity and wisdom seldom found in one so young, for he was raised in a place where no other children dwelt, and everyone around him, save his mother, had lived at least two-thousand years. But he never seemed aware of the absence of children his age, and if he did he never complained or questioned it. Always he strived to reach the standards of all that surrounded him, and always he felt he strived in vain and thought himself young and naïve, and did not realize how old he was compared to other children his age.  
  
Gilrean stood upon the balcony, watching her son as he lay high in a tree, watching the sky, listening to the sounds of the forest and no doubt dreaming of some story. She sighed rubbed her crossed arms as if she was cold, though the air was mild. A man came to stand beside her, following her gaze to the twelve-year old sitting in the trees.  
  
"Good evening, Lord Elrond," she said, still staring ahead.  
  
"Good evening, Lady Gilrean," he returned. A moment of silence followed as they both stood observing the peace and beauty of the twilight in Rivendell. The shadows were stretching across the ground and the summer sounds of night, far-off frogs chirping and an owl hooting every so often, filled the air.  
  
"He's beginning to look so like his father," said Gilrean at last, breaking the silence. Elrond nodded and turned to face her. Gilrean's face seemed sad and tired and her dark eyes were filled with tears, which refused to slide down her face. "He doesn't remember his father," she continued. "He doesn't even know who he was. He tells me he feels shame for not having a proper father, and that he doesn't know who he is. 'Estel, the human, No-man's Son' he scornfully named himself to me."  
  
Elrond's face showed concern now, and his brow furrowed. "And what did you tell him?"  
  
"I told him not to say such nonsense, and that he has nothing to feel shameful for. And that his father died valiantly in battle. That seemed to comfort him but he did not understand why he couldn't know his father's name. Elrond… Why can't he know?"  
  
Elrond sighed and looked away, his eyes focusing once more on the boy. "It is not so much that he cannot know, but that it should not be known at all. Estel I call him, and with good reason, for at the moment, he is our only hope. The enemy has always been searching for the Heir of the man who cut the Ring from Sauron's finger. Did you not wonder at your husband's death? The other Dunedain fought bravely, but seeing their Cheiftain killed, retreated. Did you not wonder at the ease of their escape? The orcs had done their job, they would not be bothered needlessly tracking down men who had almost defeated them. It is my goal to ensure Aragorn's safety, and in order to do that, his heritage must be kept a secret; the danger would be too great if it were known. They would kill him while he is still young and helpless."  
  
Gilrean nodded. "Yes, I understand… All that you say is true. It is best to keep it secret. But why secret even from him? Why not comfort him with the knowledge of who he really is, and the honor that come with his heritage?"  
  
"I will tell him, but not now. There is no need to weigh him down with the responsibilities of leadership, nor the pride that comes with his high lineage. It is best to give him these years of childhood living in simplicity. They are so few; why rush to end them? Let him be as any other child."  
  
"Have you not observed, my lord, that Aragorn is not like any other child? He does not play, he does not live in simplicity. There are none here his age, none to compare himself to other than Great Elf-lords, and that is damaging his pride."  
  
"Pride is a weakness; it leads to arrogance which results in foolishness," said Elrond, though he seemed to be trying to convince himself more than Gilrean.  
  
"That may be so, but you said yourself, just now, my lord, that Aragorn deserves these few years of childhood and simplicity."  
  
"And how do you propose to give him that?" asked Elrond, turning to her again.  
  
"Let him come with me to live for a time with our people, the Dunedain."  
  
"The children of the Dunedain of the North, in my mind, have little more of the gifts of childhood, than Aragorn does, if not less. They are forced to grow up quickly, despite their long youth, for their people are few and they have no proper home."  
  
"Yet they have each other to share the burden with, and so, can still be children. Besides, though what you say of the Dunedain is true, that is what he is: a Dunadan."  
  
"Yes…" agreed Elrond thoughtfully. "I believe you are right. It is time he spent some time with other children, and his own people. Besides, he cannot stay forever sheltered in the Haven of Rivendell; he must see more of the world. Therefore, Gilrean, I give you leave to travel with your son back to your people and stay there until you wish to return. But please, return before Aragorn's childhood has left him altogether…"  
  
"Thankyou, Elrond. I will gladly obey your request, as I intend to return here to your kingdom soon, a year perhaps."  
  
Elrond smiled as she left the balcony. Then suddenly he called to her. "Gilrean!" She stopped. "If it would bring comfort to Estel, tell him that his father was a Ranger who died bravely in battle, and give him the name Elmiryn."  
  
"You wish me to lie to him?"  
  
"It is not a lie. I called his father that." 


	4. A Sense of Belonging

Gilrean's faux-brown hair flowed behind her, whipping in the wind, as she rode beside her son, Estel. She was going home, even as he was leaving it. She was happy and content in Rivendell, but to her it was not home. She longed for her people, and the people of her husband. Estel asked many questions about where they were going, and what it would be like. He had never left the safety of Rivendell before, and he was thrilled to embark on what he imagined to be a great adventure. He also felt a great anxiousness and curiosity at the thought of discovering his roots and background.   
  
At length, they came to a large, grassy field with a few clusters of huts sprinkled about the hills. A small group of people, all clad in gray and weather-worn clothes came forward to greet Estel and his mother. The boy watched his mother, looking for her reaction. Gilrean's face was bright and she was smiling widely as she gazed about the hills, and her smile grew even more as they approached the people greeting them.  
  
"Gilrean!" cried one woman. "You've come back!"  
  
"Marien!" Gilrean dismounted her white and gray-speckled horse and met the woman in a warm embrace. "Where is your husband, Drinian?" she asked, when they had parted.   
  
"Off hunting. Not many of us are here at present: myself, and the other women and children, and a little under half the men. We've taken Drinian as our cheiftain for now, as he was Arathorn's first cousin." She shifted her gaze to the boy who had come to stand beside his mother. His short, wavy hair was nearly black and his eyes were sea-gray. "And you must be-"  
  
"Estel," said Gilrean quickly, sliding her arm across her son's back. "My son, Estel."  
  
Marien caught Gilrean's eye and nodded almost inaudibly. "My, he's grown. I havn't seen you since you were less than two years old. How old are you now, Estel, twelve?" He nodded. "Same age as my own son, Halbarad," she said, indicating the boy standing and watching a few feet off. "I'm sure you two will get on well. Perhaps you could show Estel around, Halbarad? Come and speak with me, Gilrean, for it has been so long, and there are so many things I wish to tell you and ask you."  
  
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The group of children wandered off together, hiking up and down the slight hills through the long, pale, wavy grass and Estel went with them. He soon learned them all by name. There were six altogether: a boy, Jacanhen, and a girl, Nillanoth who both looked to be about 8 or 9, Halbard whom Marien had spoken of, Tankista, a girl who must have been about 16, and Carhanon, a larger boy of around 18 years. These were almost all the children of the Dunedain; in addition there were a couple younger ones, and several older than Carhanon, but they were usually out with the men, tracking and hunting and protecting what was once Arnor.  
  
"So. If your father was a Dunadan like us, where have you been all this time?" asked Halbarad.   
  
"In Rivendell," answered Estel. "and Elrond raised me."   
  
"Lord Elrond, Half-Elven?" asked Tankista, in awe.   
  
"No," said Carhanon, smirking. "The other Elrond." Tankista smiled and looked at the ground, embarrassed, and her hand flew out to hit Carhanon softly on the shoulder. "Be quiet, you," she said, and he smiled back.   
  
"What was it like, living with the Elves?" asked the younger boy, Jacanhen. "My father says they're the wisest, fairest, and oldest beings on Middle-Earth!"  
  
"They are," Estel confirmed.   
  
"They're queer," added Nillanoth shyly. "My father said they are always singing and stuff- and imagine being that old!"   
  
"But that's what makes them so wise. They've seen 100 times as many winters and summer as we will ever see, even long-lived as we are, being of Numenorean descent. Lord Elrond says he can remember all the way back to the Second Age, before Gil-Galad or Elendil fell, and even further back to the days before his father Earendil journeyed westward to the Valar and repented, asking for the forgiveness of his banished people."  
  
The two younger children were silenced by these words, for they seemed bold and impressive, though they caught little of its meaning, for they were unfamiliar with the histories before their Age. The others were silent also, but not from confusion, and were lost in thought and wonder, imagining what it would be like to have lived in those times and still walk in Middle-Earth.   
  
"Can you fight? Did the Elves teach you?" asked Halbarad after a long pause.  
  
"Yes, I learned from Elladan and Elrohir, mostly," he said with a nod. "Though my skills are not very great."  
  
"Perhaps, perhaps not. Let's find out!" said Halbard excitedly, finding a good-sized stick to use as a sword. Estel hesitated for a moment, but the other children urged him to accept the challenge, and then he smiled and nodded. "Alright," he said quietly, picking up a stick of his own and turning to face Halbarad.  
  
Halbarad sprang forward eagerly, and in one movement, Estel parried the blow with his stick, spun around quickly to face Halbarad's side, and held the edge of his stick against the boy's neck. "That doesn't count!" shouted Halbard indignantly. "It was too short, a fight ought to last a while."   
  
Estel shrugged. "I've been told it's best to stop the enemy as quickly as possible and conserve your energy in case more enemies come."  
  
"Well, yeah, but. This is a duel, it's different."   
  
Estel shrugged again.m"Alright, let's go again." And so they did. Again, and yet again. On the third try, the fight ended with Halbarad being knocked to the ground.  
  
"It's really not fair though," he grumbled, sitting in a heap on the ground. "You were taught by Elves. And you're bigger than I am," His words were difficult to understand through his panting.  
  
"Maybe you're right," said Estel. "I am a little taller than you."  
  
But Halbarad shook his head. "No, don`t listen to me, I'm just being bitter. You didn't win because you're bigger than me- we're about the same size anyway. You did trick me though," he added with a grin. "You said your skill was not great. That was incredible. Could you teach me how to fight like that?"  
  
"Of course," Estel replied, holding out his hand to help. "I'll try."   
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Many of the Dunedain took turns keeping watch throughout the night and Estel insisted on staying up on one of the watches with some of his new friends. The younger two were off to bed, but Estel, Halbarad, Tankista, Carhanon, and a few of the older men, sat around a fire outside, telling stories to pass the time, and smoking pipeweed.  
  
"What's that?" asked Estel as Carhanon lit his pipe. He rested it on his lips a moment and inhaled, before letting out a small puff into Estel's face. "Longbottom leaf. Bought it off a Bree-lander a while back. What, you've never seen pipe-weed? And they say Elves are so clever... No pipe-weed. Sheesh."   
  
Estel shook his head, a little embarassed. "Well, you wanna try some or not?"  
  
"Sure. Thanks." "Me too," said Halbarad. Estel took the long, carven pipe in his mouth and breathed in, and then gagged and started coughing uncontrollably. Halbarad, seeing his friend's reaction, took the pipe rather uneasily and gave a hesitant puff, which resulted in much the same way. Carhanon took the pipe back laughing.   
  
"Don't let him tease you," said Tankista, leaning over to face them from Carhanon's other side. "He coughed just as bad the first time he tried it, which was only a year or two ago. He's just proud because he's finally mastered the art of it (though he hasn't really)."  
  
Carhanon began to object, and he and Tankista argued and teased, their conversation soon leaving the two younger boys. Estel squinted in the smoke that still lingered about him, his eyes watering a little. He couldn't much see what art could be found in that, but he was comforted by Tankista's reassuring words. He was also relieved to know that he was not alone in his ignorance in this matter, and that Halbarad, though he had surely seen it before, was equally unaccustomed to it. Gradually Tankista and Carhanon's jabbering wore off, and Estel and Halbarad ceased speaking with eachother, for the realized that the entire company had fallen silent now, all but for one voice.   
  
"And Isildur saw his father lying there, his shattered sword Narsil at his side, and knew that Gil-Galad had fallen as well, and his younger brothe Anarion. All the world seemed dark and hopeless. And then, he saw Sauron nearby, weary and wounded from the efforts of Elendil and Gil-Galad. And he took up his father's sword, and cut the One Ring, which stored all the power of the enemy within it, from Sauron's finger."  
  
Estel listened excitedly. He knew this tale well, of course, but he had never heard it told in this way, with such passion and in common words instead of Elvish Songs. It occured to him suddenly, how much this tale must mean for these people, his people. For was not Elendil their first king, friend of Elves, leader of The Faithful, first King of Gondor and Arnor. This was the last remnant of Isildur's people, the Dunedain of the North, the last trace of Numenoreans, children of Elros. He looked around the circle at the grim, lean faces about him, weary and lonely, yet there was a light in their eyes and wisdom beyond that of other men, and they were all here together. Here, they shared a moment of pure contendedness and calm, leaning back and smoking, closing their eyes and listening to the ancient tales. Estel let out a peaceful sigh, and smiled, feeling for the first time, that he belonged.   
  
"Estel? Hey, Estel, are you awake?"  
  
He opened his eyes. "Yes, I'm awake. I was just thinking."  
  
"Well, it's your turn to tell a story, if you wish to," explained Halbarad.  
  
"Alright," he said slowly. "What... What would you like to hear?"  
  
"Tell us a story in Elvish," said Tankista eagerly. "Any one you like. Tell us your favorite one."  
  
"So long as it's happy and inspiring, and doesn't depress us all," added one man, laughing slightly.  
  
Estel thought. "There are few tales of the Ancient Elves that have hope and joy, for most of them are sad and grim... I can think of one, which has been said to be a rare story of joy among so many of grief... Though, I am afriad, some may find it to be sad, as well," he warned. He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his dark hair. "I shall tell you, the Tale of Beren and Luthien...  
  
The leaves were long, the grass was green,   
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,   
And in the glade a light was seen   
Of stars in shadow shimmering.   
Tin£viel was dancing there   
To music of a pipe unseen,   
And light of stars was in her hair,   
And in her raiment glimmering.   
  
There Beren came from mountains cold,   
And lost he wandered under leaves,   
And where the Elven-river rolled   
He walked alone and sorrowing.   
He peered between the hemlock-leaves   
And saw in wonder flowers of gold   
Upon her mantle and her sleeves,   
And her hair like shadow following.   
  
Enchantment healed his weary feet   
That over hills were doomed to roam;   
And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,   
And grasped at moonbeams glistening.   
Through woven woods in Elvenhome   
She lightly fled on dancing feet,   
And left him lonely still to roam   
In the silent forest listening.   
  
He heard there oft the flying sound   
Of feet as light as linden-leaves,   
Or music welling underground,   
In hidden hollows quavering.   
Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,   
And one by one with sighing sound   
Whispering fell the beachen leaves   
In the wintry woodland wavering.   
  
He sought her ever, wandering far   
Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,   
By light of moon and ray of star   
In frosty heavens shivering.   
Her mantle glinted in the moon,   
As on a hill-top high and far   
She danced, and at her feet was strewn   
A mist of silver quivering.   
  
When winter passed, she came again,   
And her song released the sudden spring,   
Like rising lark, and falling rain,   
And melting water bubbling.   
He saw the elven-flowers spring   
About her feet, and healed again   
He longed by her to dance and sing   
Upon the grass untroubling.   
  
Again she fled, but swift he came.   
Tin£viel! Tin£viel!   
He called her by her elvish name;   
And there she halted listening.   
One moment stood she, and a spell   
His voice laid on her: Beren came,   
And doom fell on Tin£viel   
That in his arms lay glistening.   
  
As Beren looked into her eyes   
Within the shadows of her hair,   
The trembling starlight of the skies   
He saw there mirrored shimmering.   
Tin£viel the elven-fair,   
Immortal maiden elven-wise,   
About him cast her shadowy hair   
And arms like silver glimmering.   
  
Long was the way that fate them bore,   
O'er stony mountains cold and grey,   
Through halls of iron and darkling door,   
And woods of nightshade morrowless.   
The Sundering Seas between them lay,   
And yet at last they met once more,   
And long ago they passed away   
In the forest singing sorrowless."  
-----------------------------------  
Note: The song of Luthien and Beren was written by Tolkein, not me. 


	5. First Battle

Days went by and days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and soon an entire year had gone by. Estel grew accustomed to their ways, he wore a gray cloak in the fashion of a ranger, and even carved his own pipe, and smoked it regularly now (to Carhanon's dismay). He spent most of his time with Halbarad, and the two of them formed a friendship that was more like brotherhood, that lasted the rest of their lives. Estel found a confidence in himself with these people, and a feeling that he knew who he was, where he came from, where he belonged. These were his people.  
  
But his heart stayed also in Rivendell, and he longed for the white rivers, the glorious green forests, the splendor of Elven art and creation, the songs, the beauty… And he missed his foster-father, Elrond and his sons Elrohir and Elladan. So at the end of a year, Estel and Gilrean returned to the Elf-Haven, and all were happy to see them again. Elrond observed his adopted son with fondness and pride, pleased to see that Gilrean's plan had worked. The boy had indeed gained an inner calm and confidence out there in the harsh environment of the Dunedain, and flourished among the other children, growing into a strong young man.  
  
Seven more years flew by and Estel grew even more, his voice deepened and he grew another whole foot. He continued to dwell in the House of Elrond, occasionally leaving to visit the Rangers, or travel about Eriador with the sons of Elrond, helping with whatever they might be doing…  
  
-------------------------------  
  
"Quiet!" hissed Elrohir suddenly. The three of them froze, listening intently in the darkness, as they lay attempting to sleep. It was the darkest, deadest hour of the night in the woods by the Shire's eastern border.  
  
"What is it? What did you hear?" asked Estel after a long pause. Elrohir held up his fore-finger, silencing him, and straining his acute hearing. After a moment, he relaxed slightly and turned towards Estel, though the human could see him not. "I thought I heard something in the woods… Crashing branches, snapping twigs… breathing… But there are many things about in the forest; it was probably nothing," but he still seemed uneasy. "Did you hear it, Elladan?"  
  
"I-" began Elladan but at that moment a loud, eerie howl rose from the woods. The travelers stared at each other in fear, the hair on the back of their neck prickling. A pause, and then another howl, from a different direction. It rose to a high, loud climax, before falling back again. Yet before it had finished fading, another haunting cry rose. The three men stood, forming a circle, their backs to each other. Red eyes gleamed out from the bushes, breathing loudly and harshly, watching their helpless prey turning their heads wildly as each new voice was heard, trying to find which direction it came from.  
  
The wargs came crashing out from the brush, snarling and barking and screaming as they raced toward their prey, their enemy. Estel saw the glaring eyes approaching him rapidly, the glint of teeth, could hear its ragged breathing and pounding paws. He held out his sword in front of him vainly attempting to fend the monster off. The wolf leaped and hit him in the chest with his tearing claws with such force that Estel felt the wind knocked out of him, and again as he hit the ground with a loud thump. He couldn't breath at all, as the immense, thick body crushed him, and he trashed out helplessly with his sword. He pushed forward with all the strength he could muster, trying to force the heavy creature off of him, still unable to breath, wriggling and squirming, desperately trying to evade its snapping jaws, inches away from his face. Then suddenly, the monster fell limp, and its head dropped beside Estel's. The boy pushed with all the strength he could muster, forcing the beast off of him. He lay for a moment, mangled in sweat and blood, trying to regain his breath. He couldn't tell what was going on; all was confusion. The monster lay dead beside him, an Elven arrow in its back.  
  
Estel forced himself to stand and squinted into the darkness. "Elladan! Elrohir! Where are you?"  
  
"Right here!" came the response a few feet off, between ragged breaths. "Stay on- they're four of them left still," "Too close for arrows," "Come on, Estel, they're right HERE!" "Look out!" "Help!"  
  
"I can't see them!" cried Estel, frustrated and scared, and he felt the tears well up in his eyes. "Can't see anything," he whispered through clenched teeth. He held his sword up in front of him, then turned it and sliced sideways, stepping forward as he swung. He could hear the wargs breathing and panting all around him, hear them snarling and snapping their jaws. He swung again and again, back and forth, putting forth all the strength he had left in him. He could feel as the wargs' course fur brushed against him, feel them snapping at his legs, leaping up to his shoulders and back, and he swung harder and faster, spinning around as they came at him from all directions. He couldn't tell what was going on, and he thrashed out blindly in desperation. "Day will come again!" he cried again and again as he swung, even as Hurin had done.  
  
It was fortunate Elladan and Elrohir could see in the dark, or they may have been caught by Estel's sword as it flew back and forth, hacking continuously, creating a kind of shield slicing all that came too near him. "Estel!" they called. "Estel, it's ok. They're gone. They're dead."  
  
Estel's swings slowed, and he turned toward the sound of the Elvish voices nearby. "All of them?  
  
"Yes," they replied. "All of them."  
  
Estel felt groggy and exhausted, and unable to think clearly. He raised his hand to his aching forehead, and felt it wet with blood. The brothers were still talking to him, but their voices were far away, and the darkness and blindness was so disorienting, so surreal, and he was so very tired… He slowly lowered himself to the ground, and lay down on the ground right where he stood. The voices were still talking to him, and his body was screaming as if it were on fire where he had been wounded. But none of that mattered. None of it felt real. He closed his eyes and knew no more of that night. 


	6. A Secret Revealed

Estel sat staring into the water fountain with unseeing eyes. A few days had passed, and he and the brothers had returned to Rivendell. They had done their best to tend to his wounds, along with their own, which were not so great, and they had made the journey home. Estel had recovered from the battle, and though he still ached a bit, the blurry terror of that night has finally passed and he felt calm and safe. Elrohir, Elladan and he had just returned from their journey, and the tale of their battle was being told amongst those dwelling in Rivendell. His mother had been worried when he told her about it. But he tried to comfort her, reminding her that he was safe and had returned. "Besides," he had said. "It wasn't much of a battle, and no doubt there are many more much worse to come," and though she was already aware of this, the thought did not bring her much comfort.  
  
"Estel," said a tall, dark-haired elf approaching him by the fountain.  
  
The boy looked up, breaking his thoughtless stare. "What is it, Thingaerion?"  
  
"Lord Elrond wishes to speak with you. He's waiting in his throne room. He says it's very important."  
  
Estel furrowed his brow for a moment, before nodding, thanking Thingaerion and trotting off to find Elrond.  
  
When he entered the room, Elrond rose from his throne in greeting and walked toward Estel. "Thingaerion said you wished to speak with me?" There was a pause as they both stood, facing each other, Elrond's hands resting on the boy's shoulders, observing and analyzing the very young man he had grown into. Piercing blue eyes searched sea-gray eyes, then the Elf Lord smiled and sighed, leaning forward to embrace the boy. "Ah, my son. I am glad you're back."  
  
"I wasn't gone very long," Estel replied, when they had parted.  
  
"No," said Elrond, with a smile. "Not very long. But this was a most dangerous task. It was your first time fighting. It has been a little while since the last sightings of evil near the borders of Shire, and this was most unexpected… Wargs…" Elrond drew a long breath, and shook his head. "I've heard all about the battle. My sons told me what you did. I feel I must tell you how very proud, and pleased I am."  
  
Estel bit his lip, smiling awkwardly at the praise. "Well," he said, glancing at the ground. "I did nothing really. Whatever I did was chance; I could see nothing, and knew not what exactly was going on. I'm glad Elladan and Elrohir have already told you about the incident, for if you were to ask me now, I could not tell you." He looked up, smiling.  
  
Elrond returned the smile, then regained solemnity and turned to his throne to be seated once more. Estel hesitated, wondering if he should leave now, and if Elrond was finished speaking with him. But he decided he could not go yet, for Elrond had not yet given him leave. "Was there anything else, Sir?"  
  
Elrond, now seated at his throne, nodded. "Estel, what do you think of when you hear the name Elendil?"  
  
The question was unexpected, but Estel answered it obediently, taking a moment to think first. "Elendil was a hero of Numenor. He was the leader of The Faithful, who alone of the Numenoreans remained true to Eru and the Valar. When Ar-Pharazon, King of Numenor set out to find the Blessed Realm, the Valinor, only Elendil and his followers stayed behind. Numenor fell into ruin, but Elendil built a great kingdom, and was King of Arnor and Gondor." He stopped, feeling awkward, and wondering where the Elf Lord was going.  
  
"And what of his sons?" pressed Elrond.  
  
"To Isildur he gave the Northern Kingdom, Arnor. And to Isildur's younger brother, Anarion, he gave Gondor… Elendil and Anarion both died in the War of the Ring. And Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron's finger." He knew this story in truth better than most others, for Elrond himself had told him about it, and he had been there to see it happen.  
  
"And what of their heirs, their lines? What happened to the Kingdoms?"  
  
Estel shrugged. "They're gone. The line of Anarion perished in a plague and the Stewards now rule Gondor. And in the North, they battled with the Witch- King of Angmar, and their Kingdom came to ruin, and they fell out of power. The Rangers are all that is left of them."  
  
"Why do you say 'they'? You are one of them," said Elrond. Again, Estel shrugged. "Well, I am glad you know your history, Estel, though I expected no less."  
  
"Sir," said Estel. "I… I don't understand. Of course I know these stories, and others too. You can ask me about any one of the Tales of the Eldar, the War of the Jewels; I've been told all of them since I can remember."  
  
"Since you can remember?" asked Elrond, his eyebrow raising. "How far back does your memory reach? Can you remember a time before Rivendell? For you were not always here."  
  
Estel bit his lip, and squinted at the ground, racking his mind for a memory of something before Rivendell. After a long moment, he finally said uneasily, "I… I remember a rocking chair. My mother was sitting in a rocking chair. And then another one; there were some horses, gray and white- spotted. One was black. We were in the woods. And… there was a man walking with my mother. I think he must have been my father."  
  
Elrond sat silently, regarding the young man. Finally he sighed. "That's impressive. You were very young. Especially for a Dunadan. You couldn't even talk." He sighed, and looked at the boy. "Estel," he paused, trying to find the best way to explain. "Well, I suppose that's it right there," he muttered to himself, then raising his eyes to Estel's again. "Estel."  
  
"Yes," answered Estel, confused.  
  
"Estel I call you, but that can't be your name. What kind of name is Estel? Not a proper name for a Dunadan at all." The boy's brow furrowed but he did not move, and made no reply. "Have you never wondered at that, my son?" asked Elrond, leaning forward. "Have you never wondered, who your father was?"  
  
"He was a Ranger," said Estel weakly. "He died fighting for the Dunedaine, and all the free folk of Eriador."  
  
"Who told you that?"  
  
"My mother," he said. "Please don't tell me it's not true."  
  
"It is indeed true. But why should you not know your father's name?" Estel waited. "Why should you have been brought here, to live under my care? Have you never questioned these things."  
  
"Often," said Estel quietly. "But I have come to no conclusion."  
  
"None?"  
  
"Well… I've always supposed, though I wasn't very proud of the idea, that maybe nobody even knew who my father was. And that I was… an accident. And that you or your elves came upon my mother with me homeless and defenseless, wandering and needy. And that you have taken me on out of kindness."  
  
"Do you really think that's true?"  
  
"…It doesn't seem unlike you."  
  
"Perhaps. But that's the only part that fits. I knew your father well, Estel. He loved you very much. He would have been proud to see you today. I wish he could be here to see what a splendid young man you've grown into."  
  
"You knew him?" asked Estel.  
  
"Yes. He was an honorable, brave man. He was killed by orc arrows, not far from here. His death was a great blow to the Dunedain, indeed to all of Middle-Earth, though they knew it not. But fortunately, there was you." Estel's eyes widened. "Your father's friend, and kinsmen, Drinian, led your mother here to Rivendell, so that you could be raised secretly and safely."  
  
"I… I don't understand," said Estel in disbelief.  
  
"Do you truly not understand? Or are you just afraid to?" Elrond asked, his eyes boring into Estel's. "I know how clever you are, my son, and yet you cannot see this? Don't be afraid to let yourself hope. Why do you refuse to let yourself see the obvious?"  
  
"For fear that I may be wrong."  
  
"You did not fear being wrong when you told me you first theory."  
  
Estel took a breath. "I am afraid to let myself think… that I might be more than .. I am… because… What if I'm not? It's better to accept what I am and never expect the best, and I will never be disappointed, or seem an arrogant fool."  
  
Elrond's eyebrow shot up. "An arrogant fool? The last two words I'd ever use to describe you, Estel. Put aside your silly worries and thoughts of humility. Estel, I call you, and truthfully so, for you are the hope of us all. But that is not your true name. You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn."  
  
Estel's eyes widened and he let out a breath he had been holding without realizing. A name! He knew his father's name, and his own! Arathorn… He knew the names of the Dunedain, and started to pick apart the meaning and fixture of the name. The prefix of Ar normally signified nobility. He had not long to ponder this, for Elrond continued.  
  
"You told me just now, that the kingdom of Arnor was lost years ago to Angmar, and that is so. But the line of Isildur continued, from father to son, among the Chieftains of the Dunedain. Your father was the last Cheiftain. When he died, you were still a baby, and Drinian has taken the role of Cheiftain to keep until you have reached an age suitable of leadership. I have watched you with great interest these years, as you have grown into a young man. And I am greatly pleased with all I have observed. After the news of your battle with the wargs, I knew that it was time for your true heritage to be revealed to you. You are Elendil's heir."  
  
Estel stared, his mouth open. "What?" he whispered. He stared downward in utter amazement, his eyebrows furrowing, while a smile tugged at his lips as he began to fully realize what this meant, and he felt a thrill run through him. He had a father. And not just any father. He was directly discended from Elendil, who in turn was discended from The Children of Luthien, daughter of a Maia! Much elf blood ran through his veins, the blood of heroes. A grin spread slowly across his face, and he closed his eyes. He was not a nobody. He was Isildur's Heir. He was part of the story to come… Part of the legends he had grown up with. 


	7. Tinuviel! Tinuviel!

Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own Aragorn (aww man) or any of Tolkein's other charaters, songs, and ideas about Middle-Earth. The next chapter (and probably some more to come) contains dialogue written by Tolkein, though I have embellished it and added more…  
  
Hey, by the way, whenever they're in Rivendell or speaking with Elves, it's safe to assume they're all speaking Elvish, ok? I've been writing everything in English because I really just don't know enough Elvish to do otherwise (which is a shame, it's such a pretty language).  
  
------------------------------  
  
Aragorn walked happily through the old, lush forest, his hand idly brushing against every tree he passed. His heart was high within him and he felt more free and confidant than he had ever in his life. It was a calm, beautiful spring evening, and the sun was just beginning to set and the faint sound of rushing water could be heard beneath the young man's singing.  
  
"The leaves were long, the grass was green,  
  
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,  
  
And in the glade a light was seen  
  
Of stars in shadow shimmering.  
  
Tinúviel was dancing there  
  
To music of a pipe unseen,  
  
And light of stars was in her hair,  
  
And in her raiment glimmering."  
  
For some reason, he had always had a special fondness for this tale. He was intrigued by the strangeness of how Beren had been so blessed as to receive the love of such a fair, celestial creature. And he had also developed an odd infatuation Luthien, though he knew her not, and was to him like a character in a story that you somehow felt you knew.  
  
"There Beren came from mountains cold,  
  
And lost he wandered under leaves,  
  
And where the Elven-river rolled  
  
He walked alone and sorrowing.  
  
He peered between the hemlock-leaves  
  
And saw in wonder flowers of gold  
  
Upon her mantle and her sleeves,  
  
And her hair like shadow following."  
  
He continued on through the story, for once not caring that his voice might not match the beauty of the song, or the wonderful voices of Elves he loved so well. The sun peaked out from the West, between leaves, nearing her destination for the night. And all of a sudden, she was there! Luthien Tinuviel, daughter of Thingol! She had returned from legend and song, journeyed from the Halls of Mandos, appeared right out of Aragorn's dreams!  
  
She stepped into his view, out from behind a cluster of branches, though she did not yet see him. She moved with all the grace of an angel, her arms raised slightly and outwards, in recognition of the beautiful woods that surrounded her, and the glory of the evening. She stopped for a moment, in one spot, eclipsing the Sun, silhouetted against the dreamy orange and pink sky, amongst the dark shapes of trees and plant-life, and high above them, a few stars were just beginning to wake. Estel gazed in amazement, his mouth opened slightly, his bangs falling gently across his forehead as he blinked slowly against the light and magnificence.  
  
Time seemed to stop as this moment stretched on, the maiden rejoicing in the quiet and peace of the twilight in Rivindell, home again, Estel forgetting himself and everything he had ever known for a moment. Then suddenly, the vision moved. She turned away from the sunset, and stepped out from the light. Estel was loathe to let himself be known or seen, for in his mind, his presence would spoil the beauty of the scene. But he could not bear to see her leave, and he feared if he did not stop her, he would never see her again.  
  
"Tinuviel! Tinuviel!" he cried, stepping forward.  
  
The maiden turned to face the voice, and smiled when her crystal eyes fell upon the boy. "Why do you call me that?"  
  
"Because I thought you to be indeed, Luthien Tinuviel, of whom I was singing," he answered shyly. "But if you are not she, then you walk in her likeness!"  
  
"So it has been said before," she said. Aragorn felt slightly relieved that this was not just some foolish idea of his own, and that others has thought the same. But quite quickly this feeling of relief changed to disappointment, for this was the greatest compliment he could give any maiden, yet if so many had told her the same, it meant nothing. "But her name is not mine. And what is your name?" she asked.  
  
"Estel," he answered automatically. Then with a sudden thrill he remembered all that Elrond had revealed to him and he rejoiced for he had something to tell her now. "That is, I was called Estel. But my name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Heir of Elendil." But just as soon as he had said the words, his joy and pride left him for he knew that whatever heritage he might have was nothing next to her, and was troubled for he felt that nothing he could say would impress her or equal her in the slightest.  
  
But the fair maiden laughed and told him, "Then we are akin from afar! For I am Arwen, daughter of Elrond, and am also called Undomiel."  
  
Elrond's daughter? Elrond had a daughter?? Why had he never seen her before… "Often it is seen that in dangerous days men hide their chief treasure. Yet I marvel at Elrond and your brothers; for though I have dwelt in this house from childhood, I have heard no word of you. How comes it that we have never met before? Surely your father has not kept you locked up in his hoard?" he asked, chuckling quietly.  
  
"No," she replied with a small smile. "I have dwelt for a time in the land of my mother's kind, in far Lothlorien," she explained, turning towards the East, where rising mountains were just barely visible in the growing darkness. "I returned to my father's land only but a few days ago… It has been many years since I walked in Imladris." She looked around at the surrounding woods with a sad sort of smile, as one who is remembering times long passed, in that very spot. Aragorn wondered, confused, for if she had lived in Lothlorien all his life… How could that be? For she seemed to be hardly any older than he. Arwen's sharp eyes noted his confusion and she quickly reminded him that, "the children of Elrond have the life of the Eldar."  
  
Aragorn immediately felt ridiculous for not realizing that. Of course, she was an elf, and the years passed her by unchanged and un-aged. Yet as he looked into her eyes, he saw the same light and wisdom he saw in her brothers' eyes, in her father's eyes. And his eyes fell to the ground in shame, for he knew that she had lived in Middle-Earth for thousands of years, and had saw and knew more than he could ever dream to see.  
  
"Do you come here often," she asked after a moment. "Here, in these woods, I mean." Aragorn looked up at her and nodded. "I used to walk along these paths when I was small… Climb among the branches… My brothers and I used to play here," she said, smiling, though she seemed almost to be talking to herself rather than to Aragorn.  
  
Aragorn's face was lit once more with a great smile, for these sentimental words and shared memories pleased him. "Really? I used to play here too. Also, with your brothers."  
  
"They played still when you were young?" she asked, laughing. Then she sighed and shook her head, feigning disapproval. She reached out to grab a tree limb and pulled herself up into the low bows with Elvish grace and nimbleness. Aragorn followed her, joining her in the branches, then pulling ahead, reaching higher than she, matching any Elf's skills in climbing. He continued upwards for a moment before resting himself in a nook, with his back resting on a thick branch and his knees tucked inwards, his legs out in front of him, so that he was wedged comfortably in the tree crotch.  
  
Arwen watched him with an odd smile as he brought himself to that position, and then, looking away, she turned her gaze upwards to the now dark and star-filled sky. The two of them sat for a few minutes, staring at the sky in peace, while Arwen sang quietly to Varda. Her voice was smooth and heavenly, and Aragorn felt himself lulled into a state of dreaminess. After a little while, Arwen turned once more to look at the young man, and saw that his eyes were closed.  
  
"Estel," she said. "Are you awake?"  
  
He opened his eyes. "Yes. I was just thinking." She accepted this answer and once again, they fell to a calm silence. A moment passed, and Aragorn started speaking. "I used to sit in this tree, in this very spot." Arwen listened, watching him as he spoke quietly, staring at the stars. "Whenever I wanted to be alone… I'd come and just be at peace, and take in all the beauty surrounding me. Or sit and dream about the old tales, ancient heroes, and all the stories… Or just… Watched the stars. There are so many of them up there. So far away. Aren't they just incredible?"  
  
Arwen was amazed at these words, and looked away, out into the darkness of the forest. For, though she told him not, she was taken aback because his words brought back such a strong wave of memories. For many, many years ago, she too had sat and though long into the evening, in that very same nook, in the very same tree. It was a wide, old, strong tree, and it's great branches were open and welcoming, it was no wonder those seeking comfort and solitude were drawn to it.  
  
"We'd better head back," she said at last.  
  
"Yes, of course," he agreed. "May I, escort you back to the House of Elrond? Not that it's really necessary since I'm sure you know your way even better than I, and well, the thought of me helping you seems rather ridiculous but-"  
  
"Of course," she said, taking his hand. And the two of them walked back to their home, hand in hand, said goodnight and parted. 


	8. Of Fingolfin, Turin, and Beren

Aragorn lay back in a chair, staring blankly in front of him. Undomiel sang in his head, her clear laughter ringing in his ears, her hair flowing like a black river, or like a starless night blanketing the Earth, or like a shadow following, ever chasing the angel that was her. Her vivid, gentle eyes... It had been weeks now, since his meeting with Arwen, daughter of Elrond, and he had spoken with her rarely afterwards, and ever just breif greetings as they passed one another in Rivendell, or shared meals, but she stayed ever in his mind. He hummed a song to Varda, fairest of all the Vala, goddess of the stars, the song Arwen had sang to him. Nay, in his presence, but not to him. She would never sing to him, he told himself. Yet even as he hummed the familar tune, he questioned the meaning behind the song. For what grace or beauty had even a Vala next to this nightengale he had found?  
  
"Aragorn?" asked his mother. She had been sitting beside him the last few minutes, but he had not taken notice. His heard snapped in her direction, suddenly aware of her. "What's wrong, my son? Why have you fallen so silent?"  
  
Aragorn sighed and shook his head. He smiled, for he had fallen under the enchantment of young love, and his heart was singing with an energy and fullness it never had. He was excited at this strange, new feeling. He felt that with this fair lady in mind, he could do anything, run any distance, fight any demon...  
  
His mother's soft, brown eyes searched his face, and finally he could evade them no more. He shared a moment with her, looking at last into her gaze. "Tell me, my son."  
  
Once more he sighed, and finally he answered, "Mother, I have seen her."  
  
"Who?" she asked.  
  
"Tinuviel!" he exclaimed, his gaze turning toward the ceiling. "She is indeed, just as the stories told, the fairest of all the the children of Eru."  
  
Gilrean was confused. But she knew her son well, and knew that he was speaking in riddles. She smiled at his youth and innocence, recognizing one enamored with unreasoned love for another. "My son, Luthien of whom you speak has long passed away from Middle-Earth, beyond the Halls of Mandos... to wherever the Gift of Illuvator intends... It is not possible for you to have seen her," she said, smiling.  
  
"Ah, but I have," he said. "I saw her the other night. She dwells here still, right here in this very house. I saw her in the woods and I called to her. And she spoke to me, and told me her name, and I told her mine. And we sat together in a tree, in my tree."  
  
"She dwells in this house, you say?" said Gilrean, her smile fading. "What was her name?"  
  
"Arwen Undomiel. And would you have guessed, she's Elrond's daughter. I never even knew he had a daughter, did you?"  
  
"Yes," his mother resonded. "Elrond spoke often of her to me... She is more dear to him than any other thing in Middle-Earth."  
  
"Of course she is," he said knowingly.  
  
"She is his only daughter... And all that he has left in Middle-Earth of Celebrian, her mother, Elrond's wife."  
  
"What about Elladan and Elrohir?"  
  
"There are also them, of course. But they are two, and elder than she, and Elrond loves his sons dearly... But the bond between father and daughter is different than that of father and son."  
  
Aragorn nodded, understanding. He paused, remembering a rare occasion years ago, when Elrond had shared with him the loss and greivious memories of his wife, Celebrian, who was waiting for him still, in the Halls of Mandos. After a moment, he shook his head, and turned his thoughts back once more to the magnificent lady. "I will love only her, for the rest of my days," he said proudly, and decidedly.  
  
Gilrean looked up at him, her expression troubled. It was not often that he stated things so finally and confidantly, and she was amazed at his determination to hope and believe in this matter. How ironic that the first time he dared to wish and hope for something, it was beyond his reach? There was so much he could have, but he had never believed it. And now he would believe in something that he could not have. "Your aim is high, my son, even for one descended of many kings. For this lady is the noblest and fairest that now walks the earth. And it is not fit that mortal should wed with the elf-kin."  
  
Aragorn hung his head, hearing the disaproval in her words. But he then looked up again, and persisted, "Yet we have some part in that kinship, if the tale of my forefathers that I have learned is true."  
  
"It is true," said Gilraen, "but that was long ago, and in another age of this world, before our race was diminished. Therefore I am afraid; for without the good will of Master Elrond the Heirs of Isildur will soon come to an end. But I do not think that you will have the good will of Elrond in this matter."  
  
"Then bitter will my days be, and I will wonder in the woods alone," he muttered, dejectedly.  
  
"That indeed, will be your fate," she agreed sadly. She felt awful, crushing his hopes that way, and she was sad to see his mood change so quickly from dreamy bliss to desolation. But she knew that it was for the best. He could not go on, believing his love would be returned; it would only hurt him more when he was proved wrong.  
  
"Please don't tell anyone about this, Mother," said the young man, looking up earnestly.  
  
"I promise you, I will tell no one."  
  
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Arwen laughed as she joked with her brothers in the bright afternoon, in the garden. They were reminiscing, recalling their childhoods, and later days that had followed. She told them of everyone in Lorien, and brought them kind words from Galadriel and Celeborn. The conversation turned as she finished telling of her visit in the Southeast, and she inquired about their time in Rivendell without her. They spoke of their friend Arathorn's death, and how horrible it was, and many others events of importance. They told her about the coming of Aragorn, also.  
  
"Oh, Estel!" she said, when they told her. "I met him in the forest the other day. He seemed a very sweet boy, a gentleman I might say."  
  
"Ah, so you've met our young brother, have you? I must tell you, Elrohir and I have formed a bond with this one greater than any of his forefathers. I'm not sure what it is... He's so earnest and willing to learn and help. And yet... he's strange... Almost sad. There's an Elvish air about him. He's more like an Elf than any man I've ever met."  
  
"Father says he reminds him of Elendil," added a Elrohir with a nod. "More than any other of Elendil's heirs."  
  
"And of Elros," said Elladan quietly. It was odd to think that Aragorn had come from the children of their father's brother. So many generations had passed, thousands and thousands. They could hardly even be called kin any more... Yet they called him brother.  
  
"I know what you mean," said Arwen. "I have not spent much time with him at all, yet in the few minute we shared, I saw an intelligent young man, Elf- like as you say, and he was nimble and quick, and ever polite and humble... And, do you know, brothers, he sits in my special spot! In the great, old tree!"  
  
The twins laughed at that. "Aye, he does. He always has. He likes to go off on his own in the woods and think."  
  
"Tell me something about him."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"I don't know, just a random story. Tell me something queer he's said."  
  
Elrohir sat thinking, searching his mind for a memory of his young friend to tell her. "I have one," said Elladan. "Do you remember when he asked us, brother, who we would imagine ourselves to be if we were one of the people in the Ancient Tales?"  
  
"Oh yes," said Elrohir. "I said Gil-Galad and you said-"  
  
"Earendil, yes."  
  
"What did he say," asked Arwen.  
  
"Turin Turumbar."  
  
"Turumbar?! Why on earth would he want to be Turin?" she exclaimed.  
  
"That's what we said. But he said, 'I did not say who I would wish to be, but who I would be. Turin was more like an Elf than any other man, and you have often said that of me, I know. And he had no father also, and was raised by the kind elf-lord Thingol, just as I am raised by Elrond'."  
  
"Such a tragic story," said Arwen quietly, recalling the Tale of Turin Turumbar, Master of Fate. In the end, it was fate that mastered him. "It disheartens me that such a young boy would chose such a tragic role for himself... Did you ask him then what he would he wished to be?"  
  
"Actually yes," said Elrohir. "He said, 'Once I wished to be Fingolfin, Mighty King of Elves... Now I no longer wish for such glory and fame, or such a sudden, fantastical end... I realize now that none of that matters much, and that I would be content to find happiness and confidance and.. to be loved. So I would say I would be Beren if I could chose. It was a miracle that he was gifted with Luthien's love. Imagine knowing you had been blessed with a miracle...'"  
  
The three of them sat silently for a moment, pondering the words of their young human friend. "When was this?" asked Arwen.  
  
"Three years ago?" asked Elladan, looking to his brother for reassurance. Elrohir nodded. Then he turned to look his sister in the eye. "Have you noted the way he looks at you, little sister? He's falling in love with you, or I am a dwarf."  
  
Arwen laughed and brushed the remark aside. "You say every man I meet is falling in love with me, brother."  
  
"That is because most every man you meet does fall in love with you." Again, Arwen dismissed him with a laugh.  
  
Elladan smiled at his siblings, but remained quiet for a moment. It was true that Elrohir seemed to always claim people were falling in love with his sister. He was always slightly over-protective of his younger sister, despite the fact that most of his claims were true. Elladan, though his love for Arwen was no less, felt that she was more than capable of taking care of herself. After all, she was nearly 3,000 years old. 


	9. Lord Elrond Speaks

Disclaimer: This chapter also contains diologue written by Tolkein, which can be found in 'The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen'. I don't own Aragorn or Elrond, or any other of the characters as I'm sure you know.  
  
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Lord Elrond sat in his chamber, deep in thought. He had noted the way his foster-son's eyes lingered on his only daughter, the change in the young man's mood, the melancholy yet blissful glaze that shone in his eyes… He was not worried for his daughter, for he knew Aragorn was a true and honest man, and held respect for all things in the world. But he highly doubted his daughter would return his love, for she had been sought by many, and always they sought in vain, for she was dependant and free. There was no need to worry for Arwen, and yet, he saw the situation from both points of view, because Aragorn was to him, indeed a son. And he felt pity for the young man, that he had fallen subject to the beauty and majesty of one so high above him, and would, like so many others, be turned away. It would hurt, however gently and casually it was done. And yet… was it possible that Arwen might feel some small affection for this mortal? As Elrond saw it, it was a lose-lose situation… Arwen would reject the boy, and he would be crushed, or she would embrace him, and she would be diminished, and die. He had better put Aragorn in his place, and turn his thoughts away from her right away.  
  
"Master Elrond?" said Aragorn, entering cautiously.  
  
"Yes," he replied. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Lord of the Dunedain, listen to me! A great doom awaits you, either to rise above all the heights of your forefathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness, with the rest of your kin. Many years of trial lie before you. You shall have neither wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time has come, and you are found worthy of it."  
  
Aragorn was silent for a moment, the fullness of this statement sinking in. Of course, it made sense… He was to have a hard life, and it would be long before his struggles were over; he could ask no woman to share his burdens until all his work was finished. But why was Elrond telling him this now? Why did he deny him, so decidedly, a wife? "Can it be, that my mother has spoken of this?" he asked.  
  
"No, indeed," said Elrond, raising an amused eyebrow. "Your own eyes betrayed you," he said with a teasing smile. "Yet I speak not of my daughter alone," he continued, regaining his serious tone. "You shall be betrothed to no man's child, as of yet. But as for Arwen the Fair, Lady of Imladris and Lorien, Evenstar of her people, she is of greater lineage than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers. She is too far above you. And so, I think, it may well seem to her." He winced inwardly, hearing the fatherly pride and favoritism for his daughter become apparent, and also the harshness of his words, though he spoke the truth. "But even if it were not so, and her heart turned towards you, I should still be grieved because of the doom that is laid on us. The choice awaits my children, whether to part with me, or with Middle-Earth. But for my Arwen, there will be no choice, lest you Aragorn, Arathorn's son, come between us and bring one of us, you or I, to a bitter parting… beyond the end of the world…. You do not yet know what you ask of me."  
  
Aragorn lowered his head shamefully, for he saw the grief Elrond felt merely imagining the parting, and knew that he was unworthy of the Evenstar, and that he asked more than was proper. And Elrond had already given him so much…  
  
After a while, Elrond raised his head and looked gravely upon the young man once more, and sighed. "The years will bring what they will. There is no need to burden ourselves with sadness over things that may never come to pass. We will speak no more of this today."  
  
"Thankyou, my lord."  
  
  
  
Elrond remained seated after Estel left the room, still thinking. He thought of his lovely daughter, and how tiny she had felt in his hands, so many, many years ago. He thought of his beautiful bride, and wife, Arwen's mother. He missed her so much. He loved Middle-Earth, but he knew he would not remain on it much longer. He could not. As a ring-bearer, he was burdened with the fate of Middle-Earth and its races, and he would remain here until the rings' powers left, and the fate of the world was decided, for good or evil. Yet his heart longed for the Light of the Valinor, and for Celebrian's waiting arms. So much waited for him, beyond the Western Sea, along pathways only the Eldar were permitted to find, including the father and mother he had barely known.  
  
Earendil the Mariner had left early in Elrond's long span of memories, in search of Manwe, in hope that his people might be forgiven and accepted back into the Blessed Realm. And Elwing, his mother, had fled from Feonor's oath-bound sons who's lust for the Silmarils was unending, and she followed her husband across the sea as a bird. Elrond sighed as the memories plagued him incessantly. They had left him and his brother, so young, so helpless, victim to Maglor and Maedhros, sons of Feonor. Yet if it had not been for Maglor, neither he nor his brothers would have survived most likely… And they had developed a strange love for him… He had, in all honesty, been the only true father of Elrond and his brother Elros. His brother Elros… The only one who would not be waiting in the West. When the choice had been laid before the two half-elven brothers, to decide with which of their people their fates would follow, Elrond has chosen to live immortally, and Elros has chosen to abide by the Doom of Men... He was gone… Gone forever. And yet, at rare moments, he could see and hear his brother still in Aragorn, and in Aragorn's people… Children of Elros...  
  
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Author's Note: Those last two paragraphs most likely will not make any sense to anyone who hasn't read the Silmarilion. So if you're confused that's alright, don't worry, it's not important. I only added it because Elrond is one of my favorite characters and I wanted to show how heavy his heart must be, with all that's happened to him and having lived soooo long. Anyways. Here ends Estel's childhood pretty much. 


	10. Strider the Ranger Goes Forth

Notes: I didn't die! Hehehe, I didn't think I would ever update this story again. I'm not sure why, it wasn't all that bad a story really, I mean… I've written worse. But I was getting so discouraged, reading all the incredibly amazing fanfics by other authors, and I felt so stupid writing my own. And I guess the biggest problem was that it was just so dang ambitious. I mean… The summary said it would tell his entire life, and go through all his childhood, then all his experiences with the rangers, then through his time spent in Rohan, then Gondor, then Harad and the East, then Lothlorien and Arwen, then Gandalf and Gollum… I mean, it was just ridiculous. I just can't do that. Plus, I don't know how to fill the gaps inbetween! After chapter nine… I had an idea from time to time of something to write, but it didn't connect. Like that story I wrote, "Leave All Doubts Behind". That could be part of this story, except that this story doesn't go that far. I've added this chapter as a kind of conclusion, wrapping up the story as best I can and foreshadowing the rest of it. No action whatsoever, just Aragorn reflecting and whatnot. It's not so great, but I felt I needed to do something, I couldn't just abandon this story completely… So here ya go…  
  
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The door of the bar creaked open and a very tall man entered the room. He was clad in a dark green, almost black, cloak that could easily have concealed weapons. His face was shadowed and hidden by a dark hood. His clothes were stained with dirt and blood, his worn, leather boots caked in mud. Conversations paused as people turned from their drinks and friends to stare for a moment at the foreboding figure looming near the entrance. He paused for a moment, on the threshold, taking in the scene of the room, his silver eyes gleaming out from the dark void of his hood, before striding quickly through the masses of people to a small table in the corner. The Bree folk scurried out of his way as he came, at the same time trying to appear as if they weren't scurrying at all, as if they didn't notice him. But their attempts at ignoring him were so obvious it almost amused the man, though he made no expression and spoke no word as he hurried to his secluded sanctuary in the corner. Once seated, he seemed to melt into the background of the room, and people soon forgot he was there and resumed whatever they had been doing previously.  
  
The man leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out before him under the table, crossing them at the ankles. He took out a pipe and a pouch of pipe-weed. He brought the pipe to his lips and inhaled, then let out a long contended sigh as the sweet smell surrounded him. A fire was burning softly nearby and he stared into it, becoming ensnared in its flickering and whipping and smoldering, he felt for a moment that he was falling into it. And then he closed his eyes and raised his gaze to the ceiling, his thoughts inevitably beginning to swirl through his mind.  
  
He found himself reflecting on the past five years, and on his entire life thus far. For the past five years he had served the Dunedain, as a Ranger. He had fought alongside Halbarad and Carhanon and many others, defending the Shire, defending Bree, this very village, and many other places. There had been many battles, many strong friendships forged and many tragic deaths. He was their leader. Yet, it seemed odd to him. Sometimes he didn't even feel like he had a right to lead them at all, as if he wasn't truly one of them; after all, he had grown up away from them, in a completely different world. And he hadn't fit in that world either. Aragorn sighed, chewing the end of his pipe plaintively. It struck him as ironic that here, amidst a loud and rowdy crowd of drunkards having a wonderful, careless time, he should be sitting here alone, brooding. But he supposed he would be capable of doing that no matter where he went, he thought, smiling wryly in annoyance at himself.  
  
And quite suddenly and unexpectedly, amidst his whirl pool of memories, she came. Arwen rose in his mind, framed in the fading sunlight and growing twilight, not walking but floating. He could hear her laugher, see her smile at him, happy, though bemused. He remembered the day he had departed from Rivendell, five years ago, after Elrond had informed him of whom he was. He had told his mother gleefully, all that Elrond had told him, though she undoubtedly already knew all he had to tell. He had been nothing but happy at that time, and Gilrean had shared in his joy and hugged him, but she was aware much more fully of what it would mean. She knew that it was a heavy burden her son bore. Aragorn blew a smoke ring and watched it hover in front of him for a moment, something he had learned from Gandalf. He knew now, that there was much more than mere happiness to come from Elrond's words, and that it was indeed, a heavy burden. Doubtless he would learn that lesson much more thoroughly in the time to come, Aragorn told himself. It could only get harder.  
  
He had bid all of Elrond's household farwell, for it would be his home no longer. Elrond had hugged him and given him his blessing, Elladan and Elrohir had clasped hands with him and wished him the best of luck (he had seen and fought beside them several times since then) and Arwen had stood by as he said his goodbyes, looking mildly regretful and sad. He had bowed before her and kissed her hand. He smiled at the memory; such a brief, fleeting moment it was, and sad in truth for it had been a parting, yet he savored it all the same. He tried to remember the taste of her smooth, warm, soft hands, ancient yet youthful. But she was not his. He was never intended for such beauty and majesty, he knew that in his heart.  
  
But still, he was meant for great things. He debated for a moment, just what that meant, just what "great" was, but was left with no conclusion. He knew only that there was much to be done, and not for his sake, but for the sake of these people around him. For a moment he wished he could forget all of his knowledge and become like them, but he knew that was impossible. If he was to join them and become like them… there wouldn't be a them, they wouldn't exist, not as they were. He glanced around the room, gleaning pieces of people's conversations. All simple, all irrelevant, all so sweetly ridiculous… These people had no idea who he was or what he had done for them, and continued to do. They feared him in fact, and scorned him. But it didn't matter. They knew no better, Aragorn reminded himself. They were simple and honest and content, and he would fight for them so that they could remain that way. Yet, they were not the only ones in Middle- Earth. There was so much beyond the gates of Bree, so much that he had still to see and defend. He had never even set foot outside of the Lost Realm of Eriador. If he was meant to be king, then he must know all of his people, not merely these. And perhaps also people who were not his, but that he would have dealings with, if ever that day did come. And there was the Enemy. Always, there was the Enemy, and there were many different ways to go about fighting him.  
  
Aragorn took a sip of his beer, and placed it back down on the table with a soft thud. He would leave Bree, and leave the Northern lands. He would go south, to Rohan, to Gondor, to Harad. He would go under many guises and names, serving and helping others in whatever way he could, and fighting the Enemy, in secret. He had lived as Estel, happy and unknowing amongst the great Noldorin Elves, under care of the Lord Elrond, and he had led as the Lord Aragorn of the Dunedain the dutiful, quiet, grey Rangers of the North, and there was much yet to come. He had found friendship and company amongst the other rangers, but now he would travel alone, in places he had never seen. He had already said his goodbyes, once more. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered how many goodbyes he would say in his life. Shaking his head, and emptying his glass, the man rose from his seat and strode past the other men, between tables and toward the door.  
  
"Oy! Strider!" cried a rather drunk man from a table at the other end of the room. Aragorn turned quizzically. "Yeah, you- tall, dark fellow, the strider." Aragorn smiled slightly.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
For a moment, the man said nothing, merely sat grinning stupidly, but then came a slurred "G'night." Aragorn returned the smile and answered courteously,  
  
"And a good night to you, kind sir." He turned and was swiftly out the door. Well, that was one more goodbye to add to the list, he thought with a chuckle. 


End file.
